


Everything

by busaikko



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Consent Play, M/M, Rape Fantasy, Rape Role-play, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-30
Updated: 2011-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 04:36:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/busaikko/pseuds/busaikko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything is about sex.  Sex is about everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything

**Author's Note:**

> beta by the incomprable mific.

John's really bad at coin tosses. He always remembers this after the fact.

Because he loses, he has to go first at talking about his jerk-off fantasies. He's still kind of drunk and he just got laid and he's feeling good, and he doesn't know yet that Rodney gets himself off on generic, boring, Playboy-channel fluff, mostly about blowjobs from people who worship his intellect.

"Okay," John says, game about going first even though he's never said any of this to another person. He's sprawled out on the bed and playing with the hairs on Rodney's thigh. "Here's one. We're captured off-world, and they say they won't hurt you if I let them, you know. Fuck me." He shrugs. "We're there for months, and they _do_ things to me. But deep down I tell myself it's for you. But then you find out, and you say that I _wanted_ it, and then they give me to you, to be your whore, and that just _breaks_ me." He'd been a little worried that saying that out loud would kill the appeal, but instead he feels the current of arousal. Apparently talking about it is just as hot. Maybe more, because he's telling Rodney.

Who might call him a whore for getting off on that.

Or maybe that's just his post-orgasmic stupidity talking, because Rodney's gone still and a bit tense, like he's thinking about a problem. John doesn't want to be a problem.

"What about you?" John says. "What's yours?"

"Still processing your rape fantasy," Rodney says, and moves his hand from John's shoulder to scratch him behind the ear. "Give me a minute."

John's stomach tightens uncomfortably, embarrassment that has nothing to do with being turned on. "Look. Never mind."

The scritching turns into a tug on John's earlobe, sharp and surprisingly painful. "Huh," Rodney says, lazy but alert. "So, not a rape thing. Define _break_."

" _Give up_ ," John says, and then frowns and turns his head so he's looking up at the ceiling. "Because if even _you_ thought I deserved it – then it'd be _true_."

"Nothing left but how good a fucktoy you are?" Rodney says, and John can picture exactly the sharp little smile Rodney has now.

"Sometimes you have them do things to me," John says all in a rush. "Piercings, mostly." John fixates a little too much on the kind of body modifications the Air Force frowns on. He likes the way Ronon's tattoos call attention to his skin, and he likes the way piercings look in porn.

Rodney rubs John's earlobe between his fingers thoughtfully. "Nipples? Tongue? Cock?"

"Yeah," John says. He can't bring himself to explain some of the more extreme branches of the fantasy, not right now when it's all new to Rodney and under his bright scrutiny. He probably wouldn't even have such a vivid imagination if Rodney wasn't so damn good at scrutiny in the first place.

John wants Rodney to look at him the way he looks at Atlantis or a ZPM, but he's pretty sure he couldn't bear it.

"So tell me about yourself, Dr. McKay." John can't do a sex-kitten purr, but he can lower his voice to what he hopes is a fairly sexy rasp, and he slides his hand up Rodney's leg to show how committed he is to changing the subject. "What turns you on?"

Rodney gives John a look that suggests he sees right through him and says, "Keep calling me Dr. McKay in bed. It makes me want to give you assignments."

John looks up into Rodney's face and says, with as much naivety as he can muster without laughing, "What do you want me to do, Dr. McKay?"

Rodney grabs him by his hair and tells him to suck his dick until he's hard again. John takes his time.

"Would it help if I called you a cock-hungry slut?" Rodney asks, with an impatient jerk of his hips, and John takes Rodney all the way without even thinking about it. John's hardly ever up for a second round but his ass goes up and his dick gets hard, and Rodney has to jerk him up by the hair so he doesn't choke himself. "And that answers my question," Rodney says, and pushes John down again.

Rodney's conservative with the dirty talk, a bit hesitant like he's testing to see what kinds of reactions he gets. John's never really thought about what defines his likes and dislikes, but he sees the pattern Rodney's finding, and he's glad his face is hidden. Right before Rodney comes he stops giving a fuck about whether John's breathing or not, and John's pushed to the border between panic and pleasure overload. Rodney shoves John back and comes all over his face. John coughs and feels something in his head slip like he's falling and nothing really matters, and then Rodney's hand on his dick pulls the orgasm out of him like John has no choice, which he doesn't. John takes deep breaths and knows he's shaking and doesn't know if he's happy or sad or what. He feels like he's inside out.

Rodney wet-wipes his face off, and John tries to catch Rodney's hand. Rodney jerks away, and John opens his eyes, surprised that they weren't open already.

"You okay?" he asks. The room is really bright. Everything looks sharp and wavy.

"I just made you cry," Rodney says, angrily. "I'm fine, how are you?"

"Really, really good," John says, slow enough that he hopes Rodney knows he's not lying. John smiles. "Kind of high, actually. Sleepy."

"That's because I cut off the oxygen to your brain with my enormous dick," Rodney snaps.

"Don't worry, Dr. McKay, it's all good," John says, magnanimous. He grabs hold of the nearest part of Rodney and tugs until he's got a good place to put his head, cracks his jaw yawning, and settles in to sleep.

~*~

"Okay," Rodney says, a few weeks after they start experimenting with their sex life. "Let's try your thing." He makes a face, and gives John a wry look. "I need you to tell me right away if I screw up. Is there anything I shouldn't say or call you?"

John bites his lip. He likes coming while Rodney's telling him, over and over again, _You're such a fucking whore, you're a slut_. Adding in the angle of acting out his fantasy, of making it real – he has no idea how that's going to feel. Just the idea of it turns him on, so he doesn't want to freak Rodney out, and that means he has to communicate. He feels stupid every time he opens his mouth.

"I'm good at it," he says, and then screws up his face because, good one, John, like _that_ makes sense. "In the way it plays in my head. I don't want to hear I suck in bed or I'm old and feeble."

"Okay," Rodney repeats, and frowns. John knows he's deduced this already, which is an uncomfortable thing to have someone know about you. "The gangbang thing is hot, but logistically hard, and doesn't jibe with my idea of monogamy, but maybe you define it differently."

"Jesus," John says, and honestly he can stop blushing any second now. "No, that's the _fantasy_. I'm not going to go blond and D-cupped for you when it's your turn."

"Pity," Rodney says. John's not sure he's joking, and given what they're talking about, John flashes onto the idea of Rodney turning John into his ideal woman. Making him shave, dress up – stockings, bra, panties, _corset_. Dye his hair. John gets hard, and derails the conversation in self-defense.

A few days later, John remembers something. He thinks about telling Rodney over lunch, but in the end he decides that he can't talk about it and say it right. It takes a couple of hours to write an e-mail, in between his paperwork and meetings, and the words still fail him.

 _Hey,_ he writes. _If you had a theory that you sweated over and were proud of and Carter found new data that might disprove it, I know you. You wouldn't hide the data or falsify your results. You'd bitch and you'd do the hard, right thing, even if it meant your theory was wrong. So. I don't want to die, I'm not suicidal, I like being here and I'd like to stick around as long as possible. But the hard, right part of what I do is knowing and accepting that there's always a bigger picture and a best result and that to get there from here involves risk and means maybe things will be better but I won't be around to see it._

John despairs of making coherent sense, but keeps going now that he's started.

  
 _Making the sacrifice means something to me. It has value, and the times I feel most like you and I don't understand each other is when you don't respect that. And that thing we've been talking about? You can't tell me it's never going to happen or you'd never ask that of me, because it might and I would and I'd be fucked if you didn't understand or see it as a good thing or at least the right thing to do. I'm not sure you think I think about what I do, but I do, and it's not easy and I want you to know that._   


John sends it off as soon as he's typed the last word and refuses to let himself reread it before he deletes the message completely from his computer. It felt good to get that out of his system – he's been bottling the irritation up for years – but he's full of queasy restless energy, feeling exposed. He can't help turning the ideas over and over in his head, now that he's given them words and unleashed them. When the energy drains away, he's left with a kind of lingering sadness, which is even worse. He _knew_ there was a good reason he hated feelings.

Rodney replies a couple of hours later, just one line saying he's never heard John say so much _ever_ and that he's going to bring dinner to John's room at 1930 and it would be nice if John could clear his schedule.

The evening is the most normal date they've had for a while. After dinner they play a game of Scrabble and then watch one of the X-Files episodes Rodney's brought on a flash drive. It's not really scary, considering John's day job, but he leans into Rodney until Rodney scoots over enough to let John topple, feet up on the seat and his head in Rodney's lap.

John grabs Rodney's hand and uses it to cover his eyes during the suspenseful part, Mulder and Scully sneaking into a subterranean lab. It reminds John of the Genii – or Michael. He peeks through Rodney's fingers just because he can. Rodney pets his hair absently until the next time he has to loudly defend the honor of Science, Skepticism, and Rationality.

It's only later, when they're undressing for bed, that Rodney says anything about the e-mail. "I don't think you're stupid," Rodney says, voice unemotional, flat. "Or unthinking. But the _way_ you think is. . . very different from me. Alien." He shrugs. "That scares me. I'm afraid I'll misread you, or not understand you, or offend you."

"Wow," John says, and folds his clothes onto the desk. "Can't I just promise not to dump you when you piss me off?"

Rodney leaves his clothes where they fall, over half the floor, and gets under the covers, stealing the good pillow. "Can you?" he asks.

And suddenly John realizes that they're having a pretty serious relationship talk, one that _he_ started, and he freezes for a second. Then he turns the lights out and crawls in next to Rodney and says, as sincerely as he can, "Yeah, Rodney, I can."

"Well," Rodney says. "Okay then. Good night."

~*~

John's happy when his next monthly 1.5-day weekend rolls around. Even though it doesn't overlap with Rodney's, usually they end up spending the night together. He waves goodbye to Lorne and heads back to his quarters, where he takes a shower just for the hell of it and changes into his off-duty clothes, a pink t-shirt from the 2003 SGC volleyball tournament and shorts. He's found that people are a lot less likely to bother him on his day off when his knees are showing. He has no idea why, but he exploits that advantage.

He's scratching his stomach and looking in the mirror, wondering if he should get a haircut (and a close shave), when his e-mail dings. He clicks it open without checking the sender or the subject line – they don't get spam here in outer space. And then he looks at it and goes cold straight through.

 _There's a bomb,_ the sender – Unknown – writes, and gives detailed instructions for what John is to do to keep the city from blowing sky high. John's pretty used to thinking on his feet, so he grabs his radio and calls Rodney.

"Is this from you?" John asks. He's had that itch of a feeling that _something_ was coming, but his brain's stuck on _bomb, tower, evacuate, danger_.

"You should probably do what they say," Rodney tells him. "I'll take care of everything else."

Relief hits John hard, and in the wake of fear he's angry, but he's also curious now. Part of him wants to tell Rodney that he needs to lay off the CSI or FlashPoint or whatever cheesy TV show he cribbed the note from, but that would kill the mood. "Right," John says. "Okay."

"Be careful." Rodney sounds like he's more worried than puffed up with his own cleverness, and that makes some of John's nervousness bleed back in. He likes that feeling, and it's nice to be able to savor it for once.

"Gotta run." John checks the e-mail again. "I'm on a tight schedule."

"Yes," Rodney says. "You are."

~*~

The directions take John out to the edge of the city, to a mid-level corridor in a mid-sized tower. He turns left, jogging because he's only got two minutes left by his watch. There's a door at the far end of the hall. He goes out, finds the stairs, takes them up two at a time, and wonders if he's being watched, checked to see how well he complies with orders. But then he's at the door, which slides open for him and locks as soon as he's through.

He's in what looks like an abandoned storage room, with high ceilings and empty shelves lining the walls. It's a bit smaller than a school gym, he thinks, trying not to feel claustrophobic. There are narrow windows high up, and he can see that there's a mat in the center of the room, set up with open laptops, one on each short side, and a plastic crate next to it. He goes over to check this out, a bit amused.

One of the laptops is showing a live feed of the bomb. It looks. . . disturbingly real. The other laptop displays a message as soon as he peers at it:

> You're late. Take off your clothes and put them next to the door.

The floor is cold under John's bare feet as he returns; the mat is good to have. He sets himself down and leans forward a bit towards the laptop.

> There are seven bags in the box, take out one and two, open one and you'll know what to do.

The shape of the objects in the bags tells John what they are, and he feels creeped out as he unzips the bag labeled **1**. The dildo's bright red and a good size, and there's a packet of lube and a condom, and John realizes suddenly that he's kneeling naked between two live cameras, knees comfortably apart, ass resting on his heels.

> Now

pops up on the monitor, and John tries to convince himself that this only feels dangerous. The laptop behind him starts ticking like a countdown. John jumps, and dumps the dildo and lube out on the mat.

> No prep.

"Fuck you," John says. But he's thinking he doesn't know if there are punishments for disobedience, and that it might be better to do as he's told. He rolls the condom on, slicks the head of the dildo up, and presses it against his hole, twisting it a bit, waiting for his body's resistance to give way. It feels huge and blunt when he gets it in but he bears down anyway, breathing through the push of it. It feels a lot more like, like _penetration_ than like sex, and he feels a jolt when he reaches the base, a little disoriented, a little queasy. He looks to the laptop for instructions automatically.

> Open the second bag.

John does. This dildo is smaller, but it's eerily realistic, even down to the lifelike feel of the artificial skin. It has balls and is uncut, if a dildo can be uncut. John's not sure.

> Suck it and make yourself come

the screen says, and John finds himself opening his mouth, sliding the cock in along his tongue. It's the right weight but the texture is both familiar and unnatural, and it tastes faintly of soap, not come or sweat. John sucks a little, trying to get the hang of this, testing angles. His concentration's on his mouth, but he's still very much aware of the dildo up his ass. He tips his head to get the angle right for sliding the cock to the back of his throat. He can just barely manage this with a regular-sized cock, and the dildo's more than he's comfortable with; he has to pull it back out quickly. He feels like he's being held open and used, and he's dimly aware that he's hard, that he has been hard; despite all the static in his head or maybe because of it, his dick is dripping precome onto the mat. He reaches down with the hand that's not fucking his mouth, sliding his hand from his leg down to cup his balls, then back to give the base of the dildo a turn.

He's distracted and pushes the cock in his mouth in too deep by accident. He has to cough, and tears sting his eyes. He eases back, just sucking on the head for a while, and twists the dildo in his ass so it slides nearly halfway out, then works it in and out with short awkward strokes, aiming for stimulation, not finesse.

A series of short notes pop up in front of him, instructions to spread his legs, lean forward, give the cameras a better view. John's not so flexible that he can keep fucking himself without dislocating a few joints, so he shoves the dildo back in and puts his hand on his dick, pulling in short fast strokes. He sucks harder, using his tongue like part of him thinks he could really get the dildo off, like it belonged to someone. Someone with a bomb.

He feels the orgasm curling up in him like a spring, and the sounds he's making seem louder than usual. The fast wet jerking-off noises, the involuntary grunts and groans that he tries to muffle with cock, the rustle of the mat because he can't stay still, he has to spread his legs wider, clench his ass, curl forward with tension as his body clenches suddenly. His vision goes white and spotty, he's shouting and desperate, and he can hardly stop tugging on his dick even past the point where pleasure starts to bleed into sensitivity. It's so good. He feels wrung out and a little disconnected, light, like gravity's been reduced.

> Put the red dildo back in the bag, and take out number 3. And keep sucking.

Getting the dildo out of his ass is easier than putting it in was. John figures he's stretched back there. The dildo in the third bag is bigger than John thinks he can handle, dark purple and mean-looking. The message telling him to fuck himself with it sounds impatient, like John should have been clever enough to figure that out for himself.

It doesn't exactly hurt, but it holds John open more than he's used to, and the weird bumps and ridges press hard in all the places he doesn't want to be touched: his prostate, the rings of muscle around his hole. He has to shift, looking for comfort that's not there.

There's no warning on the laptop, but the dildo suddenly starts to vibrate, and John yelps, coming up on his knees, dropping the cock he'd still been sucking on absently.

> Slut. You're going to get fucked until you come again. Use the other dildo to wipe your come off the mat and then suck it clean.

John's having difficulty processing things, but he does know that he's not going to be able to get it up again for hours. He says this, tries to explain. The ticking-bomb noise gets louder, and somehow it resonates in John like his own heartbeat, like the throb in his dick, like the way he's being fucked in his ass.

John shudders, something dropping right through him that he has to curl his toes against, a wash of helplessness that makes his eyes burn. John follows his instructions, slides the wet cock back into his mouth. He can taste come all along his tongue and spreading through his mouth, in the back of his throat when he lets the cock slide to where he starts to choke. It's getting easier to take, and John finds himself trying to show off how much cock he can swallow, even though the sting in his eyes just gets worse every time he gags.

The vibrator goes up a level, and this time John starts talking, bargaining, because it's too much, he's going to go crazy from what's being done to him. The thought of the other neatly-sealed bags in the box is nearly enough to break him.

> You know why you're doing this

the laptop tells him, and John thinks about bombs and he thinks about Rodney. He's starting to feel like if Rodney saw him like this he'd think he was pathetic, and desperate, and – cock-hungry isn't a good thing, is it? Rodney could _tell_ John to go to his knees and suck someone off and John would. Ronon or Zelenka or, or Caldwell, John wouldn't even think about anything except doing what he was told. If Rodney told him, if Rodney _made_ him, if Rodney wasn't disgusted by him – and God, John needs to know _right now_ if Rodney's watching him.

It's so hard to ask. John lets the dildo slide out of his mouth and sucks in harsh breaths for a moment. Finally, feeling his face burn, he says, "Rodney?" There's no answer. John tries again. "Home," he says, and it's a mix of hope and failure, "I want to go home."

"Oh, for goodness sakes," Rodney says, his voice perfect and familiar even through the crappy speakers. "Yes, of course, give me a second."

There's the nearby sound of a jumper opening, and then Rodney's walking out of thin air. John watches him, feeling a bit like he's had his pause button pushed. Then again, he doesn't need to do anything now that Rodney's here.

Rodney's hand cups John's wet cheek, and John hadn't realized he'd been crying. He has to bite down on his lip _hard_ to keep from losing it completely. "Okay," Rodney says, rubbing the tears into John's skin. "Home."

John's suspicious that it's that easy, but he wants – he _wants_ , so he nods into Rodney's hand. Rodney's got a lightweight fleece blanket that he puts over John's shoulders before he reaches down to tug the dildo loose, bagging and boxing it efficiently, and then doing the same with the one John had been sucking on.

"I was watching you the whole time," Rodney says, and poitns back over his shoulder. "Do you want some cocoa? I've got a flask in the jumper. Come on." He pulls John up and John follows after him, holding the blanket with one hand and Rodney's hand with the other. Rodney gets him settled down with a warm mug, and goes out to collect the whole setup: mat, laptops, John's clothes, the box of toys.

After the cocoa, John gets dressed and Rodney flies the jumper back. They manage to avoid everyone between the jumper bay and the transporter, so in no time at all they're back in Rodney's quarters, in Rodney's bed, listening to something Canadian but not too irritating on the stereo. John's pretty sure Rodney's going to want to talk, as soon as he thinks John's ready. John tries not to look ready, even though it's probably an asshole move. Instead, he sticks his head under Rodney's arm and pretends he's falling asleep.

He's not tired at all. He feels like the sky after a hurricane, swept free of clouds and pollution, high and clear blue.

"So," Rodney asks, conversationally, as if he doesn't actually care whether John's fighting off sleep or not. "I guess that worked?" He's circling his thumb around John's navel, casually proprietary.

"Yeah," John says.

"Well," Rodney says, and John wonders if they're going to have a monosyllable-off. He bets he'd win.

"That freaked you out?"

"Hmm." Rodney shifts, and then picks up John's hand and moves it to the back of his shoulder. John obediently scratches there, and Rodney hums again, sounding pleased. "I feel like I could have hurt you badly."

"It's not like I couldn't have stopped any time," John says. "The cameras freaked _me_ out. But I trust you. It was kind of inspired."

"DIY voyeurism," Rodney says dismissively, and shrugs, shifting to give John better access to his shoulder blades. John figures his sleeping cover is blown, he might as well earn some good-boyfriend points. He scratches.

"You don't have to," John says carefully. "And you, and I," he swallows, "I'm really not going to dump you if you do. Say no. If any of this, if it's not your thing."

Rodney takes a minute to think that over, holding up a finger to let John know he's processing.

"I reserve the right to try anything once," Rodney says. "We haven't done anything that makes me uncomfortable, but I feel as if I _should_ feel bad for liking it, if that makes sense. How can I love you and get off on thinking about you being raped, and colluding in it, and wanting to see you break? I came watching you fuck your mouth with a dildo covered in your own come, which was hot, but what I was _imagining_ was someone forcing you." He jabs a finger into John's shoulder, and John looks at him, startled. "Stop looking like you're volunteering to be the Publisher's Clearinghouse for guilt." He uses the same finger to flick John's earlobe, and shrugs. "There are things that didn't work so well that I'll change next time. I'm a better perfectionist than a sadist. I like the theatrical angle. I love making you cry. How's that as fodder for a freak-out?"

John takes a breath. "A lot of people have had me tied up and mindfucked and on my knees. The only one who can make me cry is you."

"You say the sweetest things," Rodney says, voice dry but affectionate. "Shut up and go to sleep."

"Yes, Dr. McKay," John says obediently, and twists onto his stomach, one knee pulled up, so Rodney can't see how wide he's grinning.


End file.
